Dear Sherlock
by SerpentMinded13
Summary: "It is in our power to make miracles happen twice, Sherlock." A sequel to "Dear John"


_**A/N: **__This is the sequel to "Dear John", but it can be read as an individual fic too. As many of you requested a second part of that fic, here it is, John's reply to Sherlock's "letter"._

_For some reasons won't show the reviews for "Dear John", but they all have been sent to my email adress so it is for that that I actually read your opinions._

_Thank you for reading! Reviews are welcome, spread the love! :)_

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Dear Sherlock,

I ran to catch you, but I couldn't and they tore me away from your body and put me in an invisible box to protect me from your memory. They made me _accept _the fact that you died; you cannot even picture the pain that I went trough, sitting that _bloody _armchair, surrounded by your things and you were nowhere to be found. There were days when I couldn't even find the power to get up from there and you've been so far away.

You left me a note that I couldn't hold on to, that I couldn't shed into pieces or burn, that my hand couldn't touch. If I wanted to throw you away I had to throw myself away since your last note was deep impregnated in every single cell of mine. I felt dirty and numb and I wanted to throw away all these things and move out of 221B, start off a new life because I felt _guilty _for not being able to chase you in my arms and hold you the way I would have wanted to.

It's been hard for me to get used to this new situation; when I first met you I knew that you weren't ordinary and you had that _je ne sais quoi _that mesmerized me. As days and months passed by I tried to have as many relationships as possible and pretend that I'm still straight but, God, I was just so wrong…I stopped being straight the moment you grabbed my phone.

And I fell too; perhaps I haven't broken my bones hitting the ground, but I have broken my soul, that's for sure. I had to accept the fact that there were no more piercing green eyes to meet me every single morning, no deep voice to say "Shut up", no lonely soul to be saved. I really wanted to save you, Sherlock, I wanted to make you feel loved and craved just the way you made me feel special, only because you _deserved_ it.

At first I saw you as a God, but as we grew more and more close to each other I could see the lonely and empty child that you truly were and I wanted to heal your wounds somehow but I was afraid what people might say. There was already my sister Harry and I couldn't bear to become like her even though I knew, deep down there, that the process was already finished and I had no possibility of escaping your spell. God, how much you like _magic tricks_!

And when I tried to move on with my life togheter with Mary whom I truly care about, you came back like a ghost and I felt your gaze pumping in my veins and your porcelain skin hurting my eyes because for me it looked just like an angel's. And I regretted that I couldn't catch you when you hit the ground again and those memories haunted me over and over again until I was left gasping for air and craving your touch.

The wheels of time are spinning, Sherlock; the process is completed. I know who I am now but I have to move on with things. I wish you came back earlier, I wish there would have been another _us_. I wish we would have stopped playing pretend a long time ago, I wish you came back to fix me because that's what _I _would have done for you.

Don't say anything. Don't reply to this letter, Sherlock. It hurts too bad for me to see your words scribbled on that paper, for your memory to reappear in my mind. Tomorrow I will be long gone and you will still be at 221B, waiting for me. You let me go, Sherlock, in order to protect me, so I let you go in order to keep you safe from what feelings are truly like.

Feelings are like war, Sherlock; feelings are like falling through an open sky and landing on cold, hard ground, tearing open your head and your heart, becoming one body, one soul with another creature, sharing your life with them. I wanted to share mine with you but now I can't anymore. I cannot endure another war, I cannot endure seeing other souls hurt, I cannot endure seeing my soul destroyed over again.

Eighteen months. After eighteen months I returned to that crap therapist of mine. And things have never been worse than those months when you were away. Mary made everything better. Sometimes, she reminds me of you so I close my eyes and dismiss those thoughts. I don't want to think that she replaces you because she's different, but sometimes I wish it was you instead of her and my heart breaks.

One day I will be able to catch you. One day I will be able to clean that blood-stained face of yours and see the porcelain skin, touch it, feel it, make it mine the way that I want to.

It is in our power to make miracles happen twice, Sherlock.


End file.
